


Promises and Lies

by copacetic, hideflen



Series: Rankin tries so hard to be so terrible [1]
Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: M/M, come into my dumpster we are the trash queens, look at our crowns made of trash, rankin is our trash king, so much porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 21:26:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4802756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copacetic/pseuds/copacetic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hideflen/pseuds/hideflen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rankin goes looking for something. As usual, he does it wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many wonderful thanks to hideflen, without which this would A, not exist, and B, be woefully OOC. 
> 
> This is in flavor and meaning, Tharkay/Rankin, in terms of what actually happens, even though the other ships are... heavily referenced.

Rankin allows himself a little lick of his lips in anticipation. This one had looked very promising, very nearly the part. 

After such a long journey through the outback, so close and yet so far, he needs this.

Just one more time, he reassures himself. He can stop after this one. 

He opens the door to a dark room, stepping through it and closing the door and locking it behind him. He had to pay the innkeeper to rent out the rooms on either side, so he could be as loud as he wants to be. 

His eyes adjust slowly to the dim light. "Hullo?" He ventures. Usually they've approached him by now. 

"Ah, yes, good." A voice says. It is cultured and upperclass, but it's not nearly like Laurence's. Rankin stiffens in horror. "I do so enjoy secrets, and you have such a good one, Jeremy." 

"You." Rankin spits, turning to leave. He can pretend he was meeting a woman, he can play it off like it's nothing, plenty of men visit whores-

"Now, what would the fun be if you leave, Jeremy?" Tharkay drawls, almost sounding bored. He leans forward in his chair, the dim light from the window illuminating his face. "We might be able to work out an- arrangement." 

Rankin turns back, lifting his nose. "I have nothing of consequence to say to you, Chinaman." He hisses the last.

Tharkay snorts. "If your pitiful grasp of geography is meant to insult me, try again." 

"I refuse to be a part of this. You may tell her that I will call tomorrow-" 

"Her?" He laughs, sharp and biting. "I am many things, but a fool is not one of them. You were not meeting a woman, Jeremy." The certainty in his voice makes Rankin pause. "I know who you were meeting, and I already gave him a jug of rum for his troubles and he staggered off. You have been going downhill with the last couple, hmm? Pale imitations indeed." 

Rankin's throat is dry. "You cannot prove anything." 

Tharkay shrugs. "Why would I need to do so?" 

Rankin blinks, but tries not to react. He had thought it would be for blackmail, or to expose him to the Admiralty and therefore the gallows. What- what would he want- 

Tharkay leans back, smile indecent, even in the low light. "Do you want to know what it is really like? I think you do." Rankin's nostrils flare, and he turns to leave. His hand is on the doorknob when Tharkay says, as uninterested as if they were speaking of the weather, "He likes to get fucked." 

Rankin stops, muscles tense. He can't quite make himself turn the knob. "Mm, yes, he loves it. He cannot get enough of it. What is it they say about Navy men? Rum, sodomy, and the lash? He does not much like the others, but the middle is his favourite." 

He musters up enough courage to say hoarsely, "You are lying." 

Tharkay rustles a little bit behind him. "How would you know?" He sounds almost kindly. "How many times have you fucked him, then? And none of the imaginary times count, mind." 

Breath hisses through Rankin's nose. "You are lying." He insists, but even he can tell it sounds weaker this time. 

"He likes to be sucked off, first, of course." Tharkay says, not even acknowledging it. "He likes to pull on my hair. He always apologizes for it, but then he does it again next time. He likes coming down my throat, all over my face, and then he rubs it in. He is a bit of a kinky bastard," he says affectionately. 

Rankin's breath comes a little faster, thinking about Laurence between his own lips, in his own throat, strong fingers in his hair. Rankin would suck him off so good, he'd like it, he'd come back for more- 

"I blame the Navy, personally. I just had public school to contend with. I still have issues with the paddle," Tharkay says reflectively. "Fortunately, Laurence loves getting spanked." 

Rankin turns around, almost against his will. Tharkay smirks at him, lounging carelessly in the chair. "I thought you would like that. You have issues of your own, do you not?" Rankin looks down. "What do you like, Jeremy? Do you like getting tied up and spanked like a naughty boy?" Rankin flicks his eyes up. "I thought so. You like plenty of things you're not supposed to." 

He steps forward, almost a stagger. "What do you want?" he whispers, a thought growing in his mind. 

"I want to give you a gift, Jeremy. Think of it as an entirely new experience. Although since the corps has a surprisingly strong streak of meritocracy, perhaps you are becoming accustomed to stinging rejection. You are here, in this backwater hell hole, with little chance of advancement or promotion." 

Rankin draws himself up again. "Then why are you here with me, pray?" 

"We both know I chose to be here. I have sufficient reward in the company of a particular mutual acquaintance. As to why I am in this particular room, I have to remind you, it is to give you a gift." 

"I want nothing from you." Rankin sneers. 

Tharkay spreads his hands. "I think you do." 

Rankin lifts his shoulders defensively. Tharkay watches him, dark eyes inscrutable, and his smile is like a slice of hell. He shifts in his chair, opening his knees in a languid movement. Rankin licks his lips. "Would you like me to tell you more, as I fuck your mouth? It is such a pretty mouth. And I will give you plenty to ponder and mull over for later." 

He doesn't even think about it, just drops to his knees obediently. "Closer." Tharkay commands, and he shuffles forward on his knees. Tharkay shrugs off a shoulder of his bracers and opens his trousers. Rankin crawls forward on his hands and knees, disgusted with himself but shivering with want. 

"Pull apart your neckcloth a little. No, a little more. Yes, that's how he likes it." Rankin's fingers are nerveless as he tugs on it, sidling forward with one hand pulling open his neckcloth. Tharkay reaches down, grabs him by the shoulder of his coat, and hauls him until his face is in Tharkay's lap. Rankin licks his lips and he can see Tharkay noting the movement. 

Tharkay pulls out his cock, shifting his grip from Rankin's shoulder to his hair. Rankin hisses through his nose, but bends his head to the task. 

He smells- pleasant, Rankin admits in the privacy of his head. No stale sweat, no lingering smell of rum piss, unlike most of his previous clientele. He smells- smoky, fresh sweat, with something darker like sandalwood underneath. Rankin opens his mouth and sucks the tip in, a little firmer than he usually does. He lowers his tongue down to run along the underside, and is rewarded with a small inhale. 

"He loves being sucked off." Tharkay says, tone unchanged from his previous disinterest. If Rankin didn't know better, he's think he was asking for more tea at breakfast. "He likes it sloppy. He does not mind making a mess, so long as he has to clean it up later." Tharkay puts a little pressure on his head, forcing him down. "He likes to come on my face, likes to lick it all up later until he thinks I am clean enough. I think he might be plotting on holystoning me sometime." He muses. 

Rankin chokes a little, going too deep. He swallows around his cock desperately, trying to go deeper again, and manages. "Good boy," Tharkay praises, and Rankin is grateful for the low light as he flushes from the praise. He wants more, suddenly, in the deep animal part of him. Tharkay pets his hair, and something inside preens as he swallows even deeper. 

His own cock is becoming unbearable. He doesn't think he's ever been more aroused in his entire life, he realizes. He can feel his trousers going damp as his cock strains against the tight fabric. 

"And of course, he loves getting fucked. I think his favourite thing is to be held down and fucked from behind. He likes it if you tie his wrists first," Tharkay confides, sounding almost collegial. Rankin whimpers through his nose as his hips jerk forward helplessly on empty air, and he has another weak pulse of precome, "and he has let me blindfold him before. Do you think I should get him ready one day, all ready for you," his fingers are iron in Rankin's hair now, working him up and down feverishly. Rankin has been reduced to a shivering, mewling, red faced mess, legs spasming along the floor as he fights to keep his position while trying to thrust forward. "I could get him all ready for you and your cock, and then have you come in and pretend to be me, so you could fuck him yourself?" 

Rankin comes, and comes, back arching and panting through it, from nothing but his own tight pants and Tharkay's words. Tharkay twists his head up so that he's panting helplessly over his cock. Tharkay pulls a few times at his cock, almost leisurely, and comes all over Rankin's face in hot stripes. 

He's trying to blink come out of his eyelashes, and wondering exactly when he lost control of this, when Tharkay shoves him back to the floor. Rankin loses his balance and tips over on his back.

Tharkay stands up, fastening up his trousers. "And now it is time for your gift, Jeremy, am I not so kind?" Rankin sits up. Tharkay slides his shoulder through his bracer and adjusts his neckcloth. He's not quite impeccable, but he can pass without comment downstairs, whereas Rankin is a disgusting sodden mess. "I know that you usually receive things for just showing up and being blond and rich, but," he leans down, and Rankin sways a little, helplessly pulled forward, "I am not going to do you that last little favor we spoke of."

Rankin slumps back down. He tries to think of something cutting to say, but his brain is filled with fog. 

Tharkay pauses with his hand on the doorknob before turning a little and casually saying, "Oh, and Jeremy?" Rankin hunches his shoulders. "Next time, I am going to spank you and then fuck your arse." 

He turns the doorknob and sails through, and Rankin is left with himself.

It's fortunate that he usually brings an extra set of clothes, he thinks to himself. Next time, he'll have to make sure he brings a lubricant. 

Tharkay did promise, after all.


	2. Innoculation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seemed as though Rankin was intentionally riling Laurence up; Laurence would have to get himself used to it and get it out of his system.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to the tumblr side of the fandom for joining us in the trash heap. Also major shoutout to copacetic for getting this off the ground!

The heat was unbearable, but somehow listening to Captain Rankin’s voice was even worse.

But Laurence and Temeraire had been called away from their valley by medical necessity. A frigate from England had arrived with official orders and a large case for Mr. Dorset, including the new Proceedings. Mr. Keynes and a team of dragon-surgeons had developed a method of inoculation against the consumption which had ravaged the Aerial Corps, and precautions were being taken to ensure that His Majesty’s dragons would never again be vulnerable. 

Mr. Dorset had been sent a large vial of infected blood and a quantity of the foul-smelling mushrooms. Dorset had insisted that he needed a sample of Temeraire’s blood for comparison, and to ensure that he still maintained resistance to the disease. They were required to be in Sydney for several days for the administration and observation.

Although Temeraire was sighing longingly over the scent now wafting from the makeshift medical tent, Laurence’s stomach turned--not just from the smell, but more so from the memories the mushrooms and their value as the cure for the destructive disease brought up. They would not be trapped in this faraway continent if it had not been for the consumption. There would have been no plague-bearing sent to the French, and there would have been no reason for Laurence and Temeraire to commit treason.

In an attempt to ignore Rankin’s prattle to Caesar about the need to take medicine when directed (and Caesar’s resultant petulance), Laurence left Temeraire to drowse, over to where Kulingile and Demane were waiting.

“I must again thank you for your help in securing the mushrooms,” Laurence said to Demane with a small bow. “Your actions, and your brother’s, have ensured the health of hundreds, if not thousands of dragons.”

Demane looked rather surprised at this overture, but Kulingile piped up interestedly. “What do you mean?”

Temeraire roused to regard the young dragon. “Demane is nearly as much of a hero as Laurence is. Once we had figured out that these were the mushrooms we needed, we went off looking; we found Demane and Sipho, and they helped us to find an entire cave of them, although--” He flicked his ruff in annoyance, “we did not know that the cave belonged to the Tswana, who then captured Laurence for stealing the mushrooms, and accused him of stealing their people as well.”

“Oh!” Kulingile exclaimed. “How awful and untrue! How did you get him back?”

With relish, Temeraire folded his ruff back to a self-assured position. “It was harrowing, but we managed. Lily, Dulcia and I--”

Here he was interrupted by Dorset. “Demane, I shall have you and Kulingile now; do come over here by the tent.”

Temeraire sighed. “I shall tell you the whole later, I assure you.”

The younger dragon nodded, and nosed at Demane as he padded over to the tent. “Did you really save all the dragons?” they heard him ask.

Laurence patted Temeraire’s arm. “You need not make it seem so dramatic, my dear.”

“Well, it was,” he pouted.

Laurence smiled, and rubbed Temeraire's nose. “You saved the day, my dear.”

Their quiet moment, however, was interrupted by Caesar and Rankin moving over to occupy the somewhat-shaded spot which Kulingile and Demane had just vacated.

“You may have saved the day, but you could not have done it without some native boy,” Caesar said tartly.

Temeraire narrowed his ruff. “While it is true that we could not have done it without him, Laurence very prettily thanked Demane for his contribution. In case you did not hear.”

Sensing an incoming quarrel, Laurence stepped in. “Temeraire, my dear, you are both correct. Dorset said that he wanted to ask me about the receipt for the stew Gong Su made; would you be so kind as to ask him as well, in Chinese? I want to ensure that we have it quite right.”

“Certainly,” Temeraire sniffed with hauteur, and stalked up the hill to his crew’s encampment.

Laurence sighed inwardly, thanking his lucky stars that Temeraire’s dignity was such that he could be given a task of higher moral fiber than merely sitting about and being examined. He really was the most remarkable dragon, and despite their privations and indignities, Laurence considered himself blessed to have such a companion in his life. He turned and walked into the tent set up for the crews during the examinations, for although he was not officially a member of His Majesty’s Corps any longer, one could not deny that he was the companion of a dragon.

He saw a jug of water on the rickety camp table. Although it was nearly the same temperature as the air, it was refreshing to drink. Laurence could not bring himself to go back outside to deal with Rankin and Caesar in such close quarters, not after their journey across the entirety of the continent.

Small and motley a group as they were, the crews had almost all been given the day off. Medical examinations were more easily performed without harness, and it was too hot to ask the men to do busywork. Figuring that he would not be interrupted, Laurence removed his coat. Immediately he felt better; for once he understood Granby and the rest of the Corps’ lack of decorum when faced with comfort.

And as though blessed with some sense of disaster, Captain Rankin walked into the tent. For a moment Laurence held perfectly still, facing away from the tent flap and hoping that he had misheard the foot-falls and that it was in fact Dorset or Demane.

“Going native, I see, Mr. Laurence,” rang out the unmistakable aristocratic tones.

Damn, Laurence thought. He did not stir, but only finished his glass of water.

“I imagine the standards of dress in the wilds of the Cape are more relaxed even than among the regulation of the Corps.” Rankin walked closer to the table. “Perhaps the honorable Mr. Laurence is attempting to make his protegé more comfortable by dressing down,” he hissed, voice dripping with scorn.

Laurence stood his ground. “Captain Rankin,” he said, and his voice was by far the coldest thing for miles. “Perhaps I do not have sufficient ice around my heart to brace myself against the day’s heat.” He saw the faintest sneer creep across Rankin’s face.

Rankin walked over to the table and helped himself to a glass of water. “At least I have a heart to spare for my country,” he said. His shoulder was so close to Laurence’s that he could feel the heat radiating.

Laurence set his cup back down on the table; although he tried to be measured in his force, it fell over. He stalked away and picked up his coat, somehow hotter and thirstier than he had been before he had drank. He took a few deep breaths, trying to convince himself that he would not show his irritation.

“The dragons,” Rankin began, sounding nearly sarcastic, “are debating whether or not onions ought to be included in the receipt for the inoculation dish. Charming, is it not?”

Laurence let out a sharp exhale through his nose. He counted to three. Even the hands before the mast upon the Goliath had never been as deliberately snide as Rankin was now. “Temeraire has the most refined taste of nearly anyone of my acquaintance, excepting our respective mothers.” He turned on his heel. “Do you find it amusing that our dragons should enjoy their food as much as we do?”

He saw Rankin’s look cool. It upset Laurence that he had counted him as a friend before he fully realized that Rankin's feelings towards dragons were so contrary to his own.

“It is not comforting that dragons can be brought to take their health seriously?” The sneer hardened on Rankin’s face. He took half a step closer to Laurence. “They are such clever creatures, you know.”

Laurence was not a man to act in temper, but at this juncture he was severely tempted. “You did not always feel that way, Captain Rankin,” he breathed. “What, pray, made you change your mind?” Rankin was obviously baiting him, Laurence knew, but at this point he could not back down.

The heat here in Sydney was different that any he had experienced; he was hot and very cross. He had been this hot before. At sea, the ship could be in the sun for days; and in London summer could be pressing. Certainly points along their journey cross-country to open a road to Sydney had been dreadfully uncomfortable, and then to find the missing egg had been this hot, but the company aside from Rankin had made it bearable. 

Rankin did not back down, and took a step closer to Laurence. “Perhaps, Mr. Laurence, I have come to realize that dragons can be like children, and in need of guidance and care.”

Laurence was flabbergasted. How dare this man, who had so neglected a dragon given to him solely through privilege and influence until death, who had been such a friend to Laurence until their respective feelings about their beasts had been revealed, speak to him--preach to him-- about draconic welfare. He took a deep breath. “You never said such a thing about Levitas,” he breathed.

Rankin’s aristocratic features wavered, but he set his brow and carried on. “Men can change,” he hissed, sounding nearly as self-righteous as Caesar.

“I suppose they must,” said Laurence through gritted teeth. He paused. Could someone change their views toward dragons so drastically? Laurence himself had. Through Temeraire, he had seen the world through draconic eyes to the point where he had been convinced that literal treason was the right thing to do.

“Yes,” Rankin said, a mysterious glint in his eye. “Especially if they’ve picked up a few foreign strays.”

Laurence rounded on his heel. “I beg your pardon,” he growled.

The smirk returned to Rankin’s face. “You, Laurence, have acquired quite a few followers from across the globe. One’s perspective can change.”

Laurence narrowed his eyebrows. He did not trust himself to open his mouth, as an invitation to the field of honor might drop out.

Rankin smirked harder than ever before. “Or perhaps it is the… particular… company one keeps.”

This, Laurence knew to be a dig directly at his particular friend, Tharkay. Rankin had been exceedingly rude to a fellow gentleman’s son during their journey to the Larraikia port for no reason other than Tharkay’s maternal heritage, and Laurence could not forgive him for this any more so than for his treatment of Levitas. He was incensed. How dare such a-- a-- a scrub as Rankin make a pass at Tharkay’s honor, when he had literally directed them across the interior of an unknown continent. 

“You will take that back,” Laurence grated, taking a step towards Rankin. “My judgement has not changed since I harnessed Temeraire, and I do hope that my honor is not so fickle as to change according to my assignment.”

Rankin did not back down; Laurence could feel his breath hot against his throat. “Then I must say that you are insensitive to the feelings of a man,” he breathed. “Can one not change from the loss of someone close?”

Laurence was nearly touching Rankin, and he could not bear it.

“Can one not change one’s feelings, given a second chance?” Rankin pressed, nearly in his ear. If Laurence did not know better, he would say that Rankin sounded urgent, needing to prove himself. “Can a man not learn?” Laurence felt Rankin looking up at him, and only with the greatest of effort brought himself to look him in the eyes.

“Not if he does not commit to change from what he has learned,” Laurence growled. 

“I have changed,” Rankin whispered, so close that Laurence could feel it.

Laurence took a step closer. They were, despite all of Laurence’s wishes, chest to chest, nearly nose to nose. “Respecting a dragon whom you have been given through connection means nothing if you disrespect your fellow officers and gentlemen for no reason other than their birth.” 

Rankin’s eyes narrowed. “Then I shall continue my disdain for you, as only your actions have rendered you dishonorable,” he sneered.

The heat of the day was completely obliterated by the heat which was present in their shared glare. Suddenly Laurence stood a bit straighter, looking every bit the Navy captain despite his state of undress. Anger flashed in Laurence’s eyes, and he grabbed the lapels of Rankin’s green coat, hauling him up to eye level. “At this point, my own honor means naught to me, but if you dare again to impugn the honor of those I hold dear, you shall regret it, sir.”

Rankin flushed. “Not as much as I regret meeting you,” he breathed.

“The feeling is mutual,” he growled. He gave Rankin a rough shove, enough so that he stumbled. Pausing only to grab his coat, Laurence stalked out of the tent.


End file.
